The Old Familiar Sting
by SamSnead
Summary: A series of vignettes that take place the night before Katniss leaves for the Quarter Quell.  Haymitch, Peeta, Mrs. Everdeen, Prim, Katniss/Gale.  No spoilers for Mockingjay.


**Title:** the old familiar sting  
**Characters/Pairing:** haymitch, peeta, mrs. everdeen, prim, katniss/gale  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Spoilers:** hunger games & catching fire (written prior to mockingjay's release)  
**Summary:** a series of vignettes that take place the night before katniss leaves for the quarter quell.  
**Author's Note:** title and inspiration come from the song **Hurt**. the johnny cash version. also, i gave mr. & mrs. everdeen first names because it felt silly not to. and fair warning, if you don't like katniss/gale then you can probably skip the last vignette.

**i. **

"_Died in Service to Her Country"_

Six tiny words engraved on a shiny piece of black granite. Expensive, probably, but a small price to pay for psychological warfare. Above the insidious black stone was another, this one rough-hewn and crumbling at the edges. The name had begun to erode and seep into the stone around it, but you could still make out the letters if you traced them with your fingertips.

Haymitch let out a sharp breath, his hands stuffed inside his pockets. He didn't need to trace the letters. He knew exactly who was buried under that soil.

"_We'd live longer with the two of us."_

The districts weren't allowed to erect monuments to the fallen tributes - it reeked too much of rebellion - but they could bury their dead and mark their graves. With a small Capitol addition, of course. One final act of crushing oppression, even in death.

He heard Peeta coming long before he got there. But then again, Haymitch had been expecting this. He had made false promises to Katniss, but he couldn't lie to Peeta. _Wouldn't_ lie to Peeta. And so he kept his head forward and listened as the boy's heavy steps wove their way towards him. Finally, Peeta's tread came to a rest on Haymitch's left side, and they both stared down at the grave in front of them.

"She's sworn to keep you alive this time, you know," Haymitch said finally. "She thinks it's your turn to be saved." His voice was flat, betraying nothing.

"I know." Peeta nodded, but did not look up.

"You know why that can't happen, right?"

The wind rustled the overgrown grass and somewhere in the distance a tiny bird trilled a long and lonesome note. After a long time, Peeta responded quietly, "Yes."

Haymitch pushed forward - hating himself, hating the Capitol, hating this good, sweet boy who didn't deserve the fate that had been forced upon him. "She's the mockingjay, Peeta. The girl on fire - the symbol of an entire country's rebellion. We can't lose her -"

"I _got_ it, Haymitch." Peeta's voice came out harsher than he meant it to. A chink in the façade of indifference. He paused, taking a deep breath. "I know what I have to do and why I have to do it. I just…" he paused. "I didn't expect to be here…" Peeta trailed off, unable to find the words.

Haymitch was silent for a long time as he stared off into the distance. Beyond the crumbling gravestones, the thick black smoke from the coal refineries, and the electrified fence that kept them prisoners. "None of us should be here."

Peeta nodded his assent absentmindedly. It was silly to talk about whether or not they _should_ be here. Here they were. He reached into his pocket to finger the shiny gold locket and slender chain that he had purchased earlier that day from a grateful merchant. He knew what he needed to do, but still his feet felt heavy as he stared down at Maysilee Donner's tiny, insignificant memorial.

"Promise me you'll get me a proper stone," he said suddenly. "One that lists my true cause of death."

"What's that?" Haymitch felt himself ask, knowing he didn't want to hear the answer.

"Murdered." Peeta felt strangely calm as he said the words. Light, even. "I was murdered by the Capitol." And then he turned quietly, and walked away.

Haymitch felt a shiver deep in his bones that no alcohol could ever quell as he watched Peeta weave his back through the headstones. One final sacrifice to end the lifetimes of sacrifice. It was a long time before he turned back to look at the grave stone one last time. It could have said his name, he thought idly. Sometimes he wished it did. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"It ends here, Maysilee. I promise."

**ii. **

It was happening again. She could feel the lightness in her bones, the faraway buzzing in her ears. The world around her had begun to look fuzzy and small, and she knew it wouldn't be long now. Larkspur Everdeen was floating away again. This time maybe for good.

Her soft fingers brushed the edge of the highest shelf in the closet, searching out her prey like a ghost spider. Her thumb finally brushed the corner of the wooden box she was seeking, and she pulled it down with both hands to examine it. In the old house by the Seam she had kept it under her bed, and it had always seemed to be encased in a thin layer of coal dust that she couldn't wipe away. They hadn't been in this house long enough to have any real filth settle, though, so she could see clearly the intricate, laced carving of the flower for which she had been named.

'A larkspur for my Larkspur,' her father had grinned proudly when he had presented the hand carved box to her on her tenth birthday. She had giggled gleefully and imagined all of the wonderful trinkets that she could hide inside the beautiful box.

If only she had known.

Like so many other things in her life, the precious box had become a symbol of grief and loss. An exquisite coffin filled with the skeletons of all that she held dear.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she brushed her thumbnail along the edge of the lid. There were other things to do, really - medicines to mix, supplies to organize. Things had become more and more precarious in District 12, and she had become indelibly necessary. People would die without her healing expertise. But still, Larkspur Everdeen found herself perched on the edge. Ready to drift away.

She lifted the lid off carefully, surveying the contents inside. Her tired eyes settled on a tiny bracelet, woven together from different scraps of string and fabric.

"_It means we're friends," Maysilee Donner had said, as she shyly presented Larkspur with the brightly colored bracelet._

"_Friends?" She had never had a friend before. Quiet and introverted, other children had long ago given up on talking to the beautiful daughter of the district apothecary. "Why do you want to be my friend?" Larkspur had questioned, her voice barely above a whisper._

"_I just do," Maysilee shrugged, her lips stretched loosely in an open smile that revealed a missing bottom tooth. You couldn't argue with childhood logic like that, and so they became friends. Best friends._

But all of that had crumbled to dust when Maysilee's name had been pulled from the bowl. Larkspur could still see the abject terror in her friend's eyes as she made her way through the crowd towards the stage, a dead girl walking.

She shook her head, desperate to escape the memory, and moved the bracelet aside hastily. Beneath the woven strand was a tiny photograph, which was creased and frayed around the edges. A grinning, open faced boy next to a beautiful girl who was grasping his hand in hers like a lifeline. Her head was nestled in the crook of his shoulder, and her blonde curls looked almost white against his untidy black hair. A boy from the Seam and the apothecary's daughter. It was a wonder they had ever come together in the first place.

_Larkspur catapulted through the cafeteria doors violently, tripping on the edge of the door frame as she willed herself to put one foot in front of the other. It was a required viewing day, and she would certainly be punished for leaving school, but a horrible pink bird had just pierced her best friend's throat, and she could not be here. She dashed toward a nearby bush, certain that she was about to be violently ill, when she heard the voice behind her._

"_Are you all right?"_

_Larkspur whipped around, irritated at the disturbance. It was a boy from the Seam. John. John Everdeen. She remembered it only because John was such an old-fashioned name, antiquated even. No one was named John these days, especially not a nosy boy from the Seam._

"_I'm fine," she said flatly as she began to walk, hoping he would not follow her._

"_I know she was your friend," he went on, his quick steps dogging her own. "I'm sorry."_

"_Thank you." She was doing her best to be polite, but really. Couldn't he see that she wanted to be alone? They walked silently for a few minutes, John keeping pace a few feet behind her. Larkspur had just about worked up the nerve to tell him to mind his own business and get lost, when she heard the first clear, perfect note. She stopped dead in her tracks, turning to listen as the sweet, sweet melody floated into the air. Her throat closed with emotion as hot tears leaked down her cheeks, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had never heard anything more beautiful. _

"_Why are you singing?" she managed to whisper after he had finished._

"_Because you looked like you needed a song," he replied with a gentle smile._

That had been it. She had fallen in love with his song, and from that day forward the dark haired boy had been her everything. But then the accident had happened, with hardly a canary warning to let her know that her whole world was about to explode.

She had managed to hang on by the tips of her fingernails for a few days. But then there was the memorial ceremony; she had lost her husband and they had given her a medal. A tiny, insignificant medal. It was the sheer ridiculousness of the gesture that finally sent her over the edge. In the end, it was surprisingly easy to come unhinged. Keeping it together had been the hard part.

And now, as her fingers pushed aside the photograph and settled on a soft, paper thin baby blanket, Larkspur Everdeen knew that it was only a matter of time before her fragile mind slipped away again. Her firstborn daughter, John Everdeen's child in every way, would be dead in a matter of weeks, and that would be the final straw. First Maysilee, then John, and now Katniss. The last wound would finally be too deep. The healer would be unable to heal herself.

She closed the wooden box carefully, and ran her fingertips over the delicately carved flower. _'A larkspur for my Larkspur'._ Closing her eyes, she let her mind drift back to a time when she had been safe and loved -a time when her world had been free of ghosts.

Yes, it would be surprisingly easy to float away. Keeping it together had always been the hard part.

**iii. **

A katniss is a useful plant. A hearty plant. It grows up out of the mud and it can feed you when your belly aches with hunger. But a primrose is something else entirely. A dainty, perfect flower meant for gardens and vases. And so it has always been. Flowers and girls. Girls and flowers.

Prim had always felt content with her role. Katniss was function, and Prim was pleasure. Life needed a balance of each. But watching her sister burn and kill and narrowly escape certain death on national television…well, that changed a person.

It had been hard when Katniss was ripped away to the Capitol. Impossibly hard. Her mother had been so determined not to fall into the abyss that she had covered with ridiculous, false bravado. Gale had dutifully delivered food, his eyes unbearably dark and his shoulders heavy as lead. And at school…well, Prim had taken to eating her lunch in a damp, musty closet off of the main bathroom. It reeked of waste and bleach, but at least she didn't have to endure the pity filled eyes of her classmates. The eyes that said very clearly _don't bother hoping._

But Prim _had_ hoped. Even in her darkest moments, when traitorous thoughts seeped into the crevices of her mind (the kids from District 12 _never_ make it home), she had hoped.

And in that moment when Katniss had spit out the berries and the sky had been slashed open by a hovercraft, Prim knew that she had been right to hope. The months had flown by in a whirlwind of celebrations and moving and wedding dresses and _sweet, sweet joy_ because her beloved sister was safe. Katniss had defied the odds. She had beaten their game.

Or so Prim thought.

But then the Quarter Quell was announced, and the world she thought she knew had been turned on its head. How stupid she had been. How childish. This was not a world for silly little girls who hoped.

"_The male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors…" _At twelve she hadn't felt old enough to be called forward to die. But at thirteen she was certainly old enough to understand that Katniss was never coming home again. Never.

In the space of an instant, Prim grew up. She had been powerless all her life. A victim of circumstances and oppression and a father taken too soon. But no more. Prim promised herself that she would not sink into dark depression the way her mother had. She would not avoid the whispers and pitying stares of her classmates. And she _would not hope_.

She would _do_.

She would function.

And so on the night before the reaping Prim found herself up in her sister's bedroom, watching Gale and Katniss wind their way down the path towards the town. Prim wondered idly for a moment if they were talking about _should have beens_ and _could have beens_, but she pushed the thought of out her mind forcefully. _Function._

She moved away from the window and reached under Katniss' bed, her nimble fingers seeking out the firm wood and taut string that she knew she would find there. Prim pulled out the homemade bow, then reached under for the sleeve of arrows she had seen Katniss and Peeta training with. She held the weapons in her hands, contemplating them. Curiously, she pressed a soft finger to the sharp tip of an arrow and gasped when it pricked her finger, leaving a tiny dot of deep crimson blood.

She could not do this. She had been dreadful the one time that Katniss had tried to teach her to hunt, and she would likely be dreadful again. They could get by on goat milk and gathered plants. Besides, Prim thought desperately, Gale would bring them food, just as he had before. But then she remembered the torn flesh on Gale's back and the quietly smoldering fire she had seen in his eyes lately. No, Gale had other things to do now. These were dark days. You couldn't count on anyone but yourself.

Resolved, Prim grabbed the bow and arrows firmly and dashed down the stairs, careful to avoid the bedroom where her mother sat staring blankly into her hands. The warm, muggy air hit her as soon as she stepped outside, and Prim struggled for a moment to find her breath. Her eyes scanned the area quickly and fell upon an imposing oak tree. That would do. A large target, to be sure, but she had to start somewhere.

Her palms were slick with anxious sweat as she loaded an arrow and shot without thinking, falling far short of her mark. She loaded another arrow and sent it flying far to the right of the tree. Her heart racing, Prim forced herself to calm down. To breathe. She brought the sultry twilight air into her lungs and held it there. She was Primrose Everdeen, sister to Katniss Everdeen, and _she could do this_.

After a moment, Prim pulled another arrow out of the sleeve and balanced it against the taut string. She lifted her elbow just as she had seen Katniss do. She closed one eye and concentrated on her target. As she pulled her arm back and sent the arrow arcing through the air, Prim's mind flashed to the hearth at their old home in the Seam. Her father was singing and her mother was laughing and Katniss was weaving her fingers through Prim's soft blonde hair as they curled up together by the fire. She barely had time to wonder whether it was a memory or a dream before she heard the arrow pierce the tree with a distinctive _thunk_. And then Prim smiled.

She would never be a girl on fire. But she would make her sister proud.

**iv. **

"I'm not coming back."

So there it was. They had been standing just outside of her childhood home, about to go their separate ways, when it had slipped out. She had promised herself that she wouldn't say anything to upset him, but here in the shadow of everything she had ever known, Katniss found herself unwilling to lie.

"I know."

And he did know. Gale wasn't stupid. He'd been watching Katniss during their training sessions. The way she forced Peeta to replicate snares over and over again until his agile fingers could craft them perfectly. The way she patiently corrected Peeta's hands on the bow until he could shoot serviceably well (but nowhere near as well as she did). The way she looked at Peeta. Kind Peeta. _Good_ Peeta. Gale knew that his goodness should have been his undoing in the first games, but it would be his savior in the second.

"Is there anything I can say to change your mind?" He forced himself to ask, even though he already knew the answer. Katniss Everdeen hated to be in someone's debt, even if the payment for that debt was her life. Stupid, stubborn girl.

"No," she answered softly.

_Perfect_ girl.

"He doesn't deserve it," Gale attempted, knowing he would never be able to survive the weeks and months and years (_god, years_) without her if he didn't try to change her mind. The arguments came out one after the other in a jumble. "And he wouldn't want you to do that, Katniss. You know that. And what about Prim? What about your mother? They need you. The whole country needs you -"

"Gale…" she pressed two fingers up to his lips, silencing him. "I've made up my mind."

The bleak finality of her words was unmistakable, but still Gale opened his lips against her fingertips to protest.

"No." Katniss cut him off quickly, praying that he wouldn't keep pushing. She moved her hands down to his, her thumbs nervously rubbing small circles against the calluses at the centers of his palms. "I don't want to fight, Gale. Not about this. And not tonight."

Gale wanted to fight. He wanted to fight Peeta and Haymitch and the whole goddamned Capitol. He wanted to tear it down and he wanted Katniss to want that too. But he could feel her tiny hands trembling inside of his own and Gale remembered that the girl on fire was also just a girl. "Okay Catnip," he said quietly. "Okay."

"I wish I could pretend like none of this is happening," she whispered after a moment, her voice unbearably small. "It's stupid…"

Gale lifted her chin gently with his finger, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You're only human, Katniss."

She held his gaze for a long time, his words stirring something inside of her. They were only human. Just a girl and a boy from the Seam. How had they gotten here?

Without warning, Katniss deliberately grabbed his face in her hands and kissed him fiercely. Gale barely had time to respond before she pulled back, pressing her forehead against his.

"Pretend with me," she begged in a strained voice, still holding his face her hands. "Just for tonight…"

In two, maybe three weeks her body would be tortured, mangled, and broken. Sometime after that it would be dust, and eventually everyone that ever knew her, _truly_ knew her, would be gone. It would be as if Katniss Everdeen had never existed. The thought turned her stomach, and her eyes pleaded with him to understand.

Gale gazed at her for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he wordlessly grabbed her hand and guided her to the front door of her old home. The knob turned easily, and with one quick glance at the deserted street, he pulled her inside.

Katniss had barely stepped through the door, her eyes adjusting to the dim familiarity, when his lips were back on hers. She responded hungrily, their lips bruising each other, their tongues desperately tangled in a knot of words unspoken as he pressed her up against the door. Katniss reached for his hair to pull him closer, her fingers tangling in the dark strands as Gale's lips blazed a trail down her neck. Their bodies were pressed together and Katniss could feel the blood pulsing through their veins in a frenzied rhythm.

She felt his rough fingers start to drift under the hem of her shirt, his eyes questioning, and she nodded her head with barely a thought. Her skin felt electrified, and she let the sweet, buzzing current of _forgetting_ engulf her completely as Gale began to carefully, reverently remove her clothing. Their hands were everywhere, desperate to memorize the planes and curves of each other's bodies, and she was surprised by how natural it felt to be here with him. How fitting. Her death would be Peeta's, but her life had always belonged to Gale.

Katniss sighed against his bare shoulder and they let themselves _pretend_.

Later, they lay together on the bare mattress in her old bedroom, legs and arms intertwined in a knot they dared not unravel quite yet. Katniss could see the moon rising through the window as Gale pressed a kiss to the crook of her neck, and she thought idly that her mother and Prim might be worried. Just a few more minutes, she promised herself as she wove her fingers through his and sunk her body closer. Minutes were precious when you had begun to count your life in days.

And there - in the shadow of the moonlight, with only the sound of their breathing to fill the silence - Katniss finally let herself admit the very thing she had been trying to avoid.

"I am afraid to die."

Her greatest fear, finally lain bare, and yet she felt no shame. She was safe here, safer than she had ever been, and it was okay to be afraid.

"Me too," Gale answered honestly, tightening his embrace.

"Promise me you'll stay safe," she whispered suddenly. It was a silly, sentimental thing to ask for, really, but she couldn't help it.

"Katniss…it's a war. Some people die."

Yes. Some people die. And every death means something. Katniss hoped that hers would mean the difference.

They dressed silently, the moment for pretending and forgetting now passed. Katniss noticed Gale gazing at her from across the room, his lips beginning to curve into words unspoken, and she shook her head gently. Tomorrow she would be strong. Tomorrow she would say all of the things that needed to be said.

It was only when they were standing in the moonlight, ready to separate for _almost_ the last time, that Katniss found the silence to be unbearably insufficient.

"Gale…"

He turned around. His shoulders were heavy, but his eyes were clear and bright. Strong.

"May the odds…" She attempted to keep her voice light, but faltered at the last second.

"…be _ever_ in your favor." He finished with a wry smile. Because they both knew now that the time for odds was ending. The time for cruel chance was coming to a close. Now was the time for action and decision and movement.

Now was the time for _rebellion_.


End file.
